


Writing On The Walls

by unlockedlips



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Stuttering, kinda????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 03:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18402563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlockedlips/pseuds/unlockedlips
Summary: It’s always the same after a trip to the mausoleum.Reginald bursts through the heavy wooden doors of their own personal block with a barely coherent Klaus in his arms, shivering and crying out against the invisible, covered in cobwebs and grime from the floor of the crypts. Grace takes him to carry him up the flights of stairs while he lies limp in her capable arms, only to be placed in his cramped room. Methodically, she strips his fragile body of his clothing. And once he is placed in his linen scented pajamas and tucked neatly into bed, she will leave him in the dark, in the silence.If only it were silent.





	Writing On The Walls

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the writing on klaus's wall which can be seen in this post by [ if-the-moon-told-you-so](http://if-the-moon-told-you-so.tumblr.com/post/183035554069/what-must-i-do-to-feel-anything-vacuum-the-void). i couldn't stop thinking about poor klaus in his room writing for hours in order to cope with what he hears while trapped in the mausoleum. also i slapped an underage tag on this because they're seventeen in this (yes i know klaus has been locked in the mausoleum multiple times at this point but... whatever) thank you to the wonderful stereolights for always encouraging me and reading my shit. pls pls pls leave a comment as this is my first fic in this fandom and my first fic in three years.

It’s always the same after a trip to the mausoleum.

 

Reginald bursts through the heavy wooden doors of their own personal block with a barely coherent Klaus in his arms, shivering and crying out against the invisible, covered in cobwebs and grime from the floor of the crypts. Grace takes him to carry him up the flights of stairs while he lies limp in her capable arms, only to be placed in his cramped room. Methodically, she strips his fragile body of his clothing. And once he is placed in his linen scented pajamas and tucked neatly into bed, she will leave him in the dark, in the silence.

 

If only it were silent.

 

_"How do you know who I am?”_

 

A snippet. A phrase. A scream. They echo in his mind, nagging at him to do something, anything to get the voices to shut up.

 

God, just shut up.

 

They were all the same. Each and every spirit had their tales to tell, the next more gruesome, more horrid than the last. Tethered to their decaying crypts, their minds were warped and their mouths opened to spew out putrid poetry, rank with horror, no different than the stench rising from the coffins around him. And what could Klaus do, locked inside his worst nightmare, except listen to the psalms of the dead?

 

Klaus fumbles to switch on the lamp perched on the edge of the nightstand with numb fingers and knocks it off to crash and shatter on the wooden floor. The sound only startles him deeper into his thoughts, no, _their thoughts_. He has to get them out. Get them out. Get them out of his mind, his body, his fucking soul. He yanks the drawer open, rummages until his hand clasps around the one tool that can anchor him to the present. Though tremors wrack his body, he kneels on his bed and begins to write on the walls.

 

_“What must I do to feel anything? Vacuum the void of space. Space dust all clean. Beast creatures mythical and real all must be ground to dust to stay anew.”_

 

Klaus has no control over what he writes. Words coalesce and overlap against the dingy wallpaper as he recites the words of the damned on his sandpaper tongue. They create half-formed thoughts, a terrifying picture of life after death. The writing on the wall curls and dips, a letter here and its counterpart scribbled in the corner. It’s like he’s possessed, like each of them took a little piece of his soul and replaced it with the bleak expanse of purgatory. He feels nothing. He’ll never feel again if he doesn’t get them out and wouldn’t that please Reginald? To know that his biggest disappointment turned into the very thing that held him back.

 

Would it really be that horrible to let go and become a ghost of all he could have been? An embodiment of his failures, empty and obsolete.

 

_"How do I know who I am?”_

 

Seconds, minutes, hours pass as he expels the memory of the spirits with every syllable he etches with the drying tip of his marker when the overhead lights flip on and cast a glow against the backdrop he’s created. He’s forced to witness the madness of his work, disjointed and crazed as it is.

 

“Klaus?”

 

Slowly, he turns his head even as his hand continues to write to see Diego framed in the doorway. So full of life, his brother is the brightest light he’s ever seen. An angel among the trapped souls in his mind, burning hotter than the goddamn sun. He does not feel the tears that have been steadily leaking out of his puffy eyes, nor does he feel the movement of his lips as he repeats the words of the dead.

 

Diego approaches, closing the door with a quiet click that seems deafening in this cursed place.

 

“Klaus, what are you doing? I keep hearing banging on the walls and if Pogo catches you awake, then--”

 

Diego’s words get lodged in his throat as Klaus turns back to the wall and writes the same words over and over again, each new letter less legible than the last.

 

“How do I know who I am? How do I know who I am? How do I know who I am? How do I--?”

 

The bed dips and a warm hand grabs his shoulder and forcefully spins him away from his work. But he can’t stop, not yet, not when they’re almost gone. He just has to keep writing, keep spinning their webs for them so they’ll leave him alone. Klaus grabs Diego’s arm and writes on supple skin.

 

“Klaus! Hey, stop, just… Jesus, just stop and _look at me_.”

 

Those same hands grab his face so he is forced to look his angel in the eyes. Klaus wonders if Diego can see them, the dead crawling under his veins and pushing against the barrier of their world to crawl out of his pores and into the land of the living. Diego wipes at the wet tracks down his cheek and his fingers come away stained black from the remnants of his eyeliner.

 

“How do I know who I am, Di?” he cries and digs his fingers into the meaty flesh of his brother’s arms as if maybe he can shackle himself to Diego much like the dead have shackled themselves to his heart.

 

Whatever Diego sees, it scares him enough to lunge forward and press his lips to Klaus’s and there he breathes sweet life back into his lungs. It is their first kiss, the first sweet thing Klaus thinks he’s ever experienced in his entire life and he cries out a wretched sob no seventeen year old should have to make.

 

“”It’s okay, K-klaus. You’re s-s-safe n-now.”

 

Safe or not, Klaus doesn’t care as he drags Diego into another kiss with lips that must taste like graveyard dirt, but Diego doesn’t pull away. He wraps his arms around Klaus and kisses him harder with the passion only a teenager who still holds onto hope can muster. It’s enough to stave off the void in the pit of Klaus’s stomach, and the marker falls from his hand so he can tangle it in his brother’s hair.

 

“I know who you are,” Diego murmurs against his lips. “I’m always going to know who you are.”

 

Diego traces his bottom lip with his tongue and Klaus shudders hard, opening up to him much like the solid doors of the mausoleum had opened up to swallow him whole. He wants to devour his brother, touch him, taste him, _hurt_ him if it means getting rid of this emptiness. But Diego is too soft. He licks into Klaus’s mouth like a cat might lick a wound and all Klaus can do is hold onto him and whimper.

 

“Feels like you’re made of ice. Why’re you so cold?” Diego pulls back to run his hands up and down Klaus’s pale arms.

 

“Because I’m dead.”

 

Klaus doesn’t give Diego any time to think about what that could mean as he loses himself in lips and tongues and teeth. He’s kissed a lot of boys, a lot of girls, and none of them so good as his own fucking brother which is the cherry on top of this whole fucked up situation. It would be different if he had any control right now, but he needs this. He needs to feel Diego’s gentle hands skimming the edges of his pajama top as if to push up the hem to touch. He needs to feel the hint of Diego’s teeth tug at his bottom lip.

 

_"Forge my soul in the fire.”_

 

The thoughts still come unbidden, intrusive and so loud he winces, pulls away from Diego’s fervent touches. Klaus can still picture them, all of them, ghastly and spectral blue with a death rattle in their lungs. They’re everywhere. In the graveyard, on the streets, in his room, just waiting for a moment when his defenses are down to take, take, take.

 

He wants to take.

 

“Please,” he breathes against pliant lips, searching Diego’s eyes for something, and he thinks maybe he sees it in the rich chocolate brown. Resilience. Determination, no, dedication.

 

“What do you want? T-tell me,” the stutter gets worse as the dusty blush rises on his cheeks and Klaus thinks he could love him like this, he could find solace in that gentle expression for the rest of his life. It could almost be enough.

 

Klaus shakes his head.

 

“I /need/…” he corrects. This isn’t a want, a simple desire born of teenage rebellion and curiosity though he’s sure it could have happened that way if he wasn’t so fucked up in the head. This is more, this is desperate and primal and, and, and…

 

“I need you to make me feel alive.”

 

Fear flashes cold like an unexpected freeze in spring across Diego’s face, but he pushes through it to then push Klaus down against rumpled pillows. He goes willingly, hands grappling for purchase against the first thing they can grab. Diego’s hips are strong beneath his trembling fingers and he spreads his legs to make room for him as if he’s done this hundreds of times before (he thinks maybe if this helps, he will).

 

Lips crash together once more with such fervor that their teeth clash together. It hurts and Klaus loves it, chases it by shoving his freezing hands up Diego’s shirt to pull him down closer. He feels the hard length of him, pressed against his own and a breathy gasp, not unlike a quiet sob leeches from his mouth.

 

They move in tandem, stuttered staccato rolls of their hips. The drag of soft cotton against the flushed tip of his cock is this side of too much which is perfect, so perfect and he shows his thanks by digging his fingers into the flesh of Diego’s lower back, pulling him down harder.

 

“Yes, please, please,” he begs and whimpers into Diego’s neck before he licks a stripe to taste soap and sweat and salt. It tastes like life, like summer days and secret nights. He thinks he hears Diego groan, feels him press harder, shift his hips to get the perfect angle so that their cocks are lined up as they rut together.

 

“I’ll take care of you,” Diego promises as he kisses him again, like it’s too painful to not have their lips touching, like he needs to make sure Klaus is still breathing with his tongue down his throat. “Always going to take care of you.”

 

Klaus’s orgasm takes him by surprise as he climbs higher and higher, soaring above the clouds with his angel holding him tightly. Every muscle in his body goes tense as he freezes and…

 

Silence. Blissful silence. No thoughts, no demons, nothing but an empty mind.

 

He shakes hard as he releases, spilling and soaking his cotton briefs as he bites down on Diego’s shoulder to stop himself from crying out. And it’s like all at once, death leaves him in a dark cloud that hovers above them, just out of reach. It’ll settle in his bones later, he knows, when Diego has crept back to his bed reluctantly, it’ll settle back into his heart and be that much harder to exorcise the next time. But for now, Klaus is painfully alive and aware and burning as Diego follows suit and comes with his brother’s name like a prayer on his mouth.

 

Later, as they come down all wrapped in each other’s arms, Klaus traces the blue veins in Diego’s wrist, up his arm and to his heart, much like a road map to his own personal salvation.

 

_”What is the truth of everything?”_

 

Diego tightens his hold around Klaus as if to savor this moment before he sneaks back out into the darkness of the halls to the safety of his own room. His hand tangles in Klaus’s hair to hold him close to his chest, and Klaus thinks maybe, just maybe, if he could always come home to this, he could withstand the longing whispers of the dead.

 

This is the truth of everything, this little secret kept between them, shared only in the gentle passing of timid fingertips and questioning kisses, and Klaus can die happy now that he knows it.


End file.
